


Just sleep now, rest in peace.

by skyfallat221b



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, F/M, Post-Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:12:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfallat221b/pseuds/skyfallat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After New York, Clint finds himself facing nightmares at night. The only way to make them stop, is to run. Run from everything, run until his body yells him to stop, until the voices turn quiet as stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just sleep now, rest in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little one-shot that I wrote on the train. I'm inspired (a lot) from the first chapter of the Shamer Wars (by Lene Kaaberbøl) for this, as from the song Another Way Out by Hollywood Undead.
> 
> I suggest listening to "Leaving" by Harry Gregson Williams and David Buckley from "The Town" soundtrack while reading.
> 
> Hope you like it!

_/My name is Clint Barton. I am Hawkeye. I am Clint. Clint. It's Clint._

He keeps repeating it. He needs to remind himself of who he is. Who he was. Agent. Friend. Father. Husband. He is a person. A human being. He is human. He needs to remember it. If he isn't human, he is a monster.

A monster...

**/A monster. A killer. Murderer. Blood. Blood everywhere. It doesn't wash off.**

He pushes the covers away, his feet tangled, and sits up, suddenly holding his head firmly. As if someone is going to hit him. He pushes the palms of his hands against his ears. But the voices don't come from outside. They are inside of him. Taking out the aids doesn't help. It makes it worse. When he is without them, all the other noises and voices are blocked out, and the only sound he hears is the whisper. A whisper, as silent as a ghost, but it never leaves him alone for long.

He is covered in sweat. His shirt clings to him like a second skin, and he can feels the drops trickling down between his shoulder blades.

Laura is still asleep next to him. She doesn't move when he pushes himself out of the bed. She rarely does. He grabs a pair of pants from the open closet as he heads out of the room, needing to clear his head.

_/Clint. I'm Clint. I have a wife, a son, a daughter. I saved the world._

His world turns a bright shade of blue as he comes down the stairs and he almost misses a step. Catching himself on the railing, he stops, listens, watches.

**/The world is dead. Dead. Your fault. You killed the world.**

His knuckles turn white as he sees dancing shadows in the dark – faceless creatures with arrows pointing out of them, blood dripping from the wound. His eyes close ass he wills the voices quiet.

Going down the last steps, he pulls off his sweat soaked shirt and throws it on a pile, in the corner, by the door. He pulls the pants on mindlessly.

In two strides, he is at the door. He takes a deep breath before he pushes it open. The smell of spring is strong outside – mist still lies on the ground and he can almost taste the humidity on the edge of his lips. It's dark out. The moon is but a thin line in the nightsky. He doesn't stop to put on shoes.

He steps out onto the wet porch, the soles of his bare feet warm against the cold wood.

He starts running the moment his feet touch the grass. Down the gravel road, up to the edge of the barn. He runs, slow at first, picking up a steady pace as he passes the enclosure they keep the horses in, past the useless tractor, down towards the pond and past it, the ground slightly unsteady under his feet. He runs past the water where some lazy crickets and frogs are probably still singing lately. He hasn't put his aids in.

He runs faster and faster, up the trail to the forest behind the farmgrounds, past the old birches in their yard, up across the the hill and on to the dense forest, seeming as close to the sky as if the trees were trying to grab the stars out of the blue emptiness.

He runs and runs, until his breathing deepens and his heart races in his chest, like an angry drum, asking him to stop. He isn't cold, not even his feet, for the blood pumped through his veins, hot and angry. Sweat pours down his bare back and his bare chest.

He runs like the devil himself is following him, sprinting whenever he can, running as far as he can. He runs from everything and anything, until only quietness entombs him. He can taste the scent of the trees next to him, as an empty silence starts to fall onto him. He doesn't know how many times he trips on a branch, on a hole, on a leaf, but he keeps going.

Almost an hour passes before the whisper disappears entirely, and he's run the unease and nightmare out of his body.

Turning around, he trails back towards the farm in a more steady pace. He runs through the woods again, the stars shining their light down on him like silent judges, witnesses of his hurt and pain.

Stopping near a stream, he kneels down and rubs his neck and chest clean, before drinking some of the water. The taste grounds him – it tastes like leaves and dirt, and nature allows him to find his peace. He drinks until his mouth isn't dry anymore, and the icy cold burns through his lungs and stomach.

When he reaches the farm, the front door is open. In the darkened opening, Laura stands, quiet and waiting. She says nothing when he reaches the porch. She hands him a woolen blanket and a bottle of water. She knows.

Clint pull the blanket over him, even though he is still sweating, his heart racing after the effort. He can feel his legs shaking, his entire body crying out in protest. He knows that as soon as he stops sweating, he'll start shaking.

Laura puts her hand on the back of his neck and rubs it gently, before she heads back up the stairs and to bed.

It wasn't every night that he ran like this. It had been at first. Every night. Every single night, right after Loki. After death and destruction. Only when the voice and whisper had taken its toll on him, keeping him awake at night, restless and afraid.

Laura wakes every time. Not necessarily when he does, or when he leaves, but when he comes home she is always up. He guesses his absence in the bed pulls her from sleep. Or maybe she has a sixth sense that tells her that her husband is missing from the house.

He hasn't told her about the whisper, but he thinks that she knows. She had asked if anything was wrong, in the beginning, right after he had come home. He'd said no. Now, she didn't ask anymore. She just stood there, with the blanket and the water, and they both went to bed when he made it home.

Clint stays up until he stops shaking, before he heads for the couch. It's the way, now. He runs, and finishes the night on his own, in the couch. As he lies down, he takes a deep breath.

The quiet in his head is soothing. There is no noise, no whisper, nothing. Just silence. As he falls asleep, emptiness welcomes him, until morning light wakes him for another day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's it!  
> I love exploring the Laura/Clint relationship, and will probably do so in the future more. How did you like it? Let me know!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
